


Keep the Wolves at Bay

by GraceEliz



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Ace Fives and Barriss, Asexual Character, Dyads, F/M, Female Anakin Skywalker, Fix-It, Fluff, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gen, Qpps Lumi-Quin-Obi, Slice of Life, most of them tbh - Freeform, no angst guarantee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27209200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: Aayla and her sister have everything they need, and they're never going to be separated.
Relationships: Aayla Secura & Anakin Skywalker, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555/Barriss Offee, CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luminara Unduli & Quinlan Vos
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Keep the Wolves at Bay

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT

Ana Skywalker is a miracle child. She is born under a moonless sky, a rare thing, but even rarer, she is born at the exact moment when the storm outside is at its peak, although she doesn’t know it. She never will, really, not even when she is far older and Jedi to the bone. The second part of her miracle birth is this: many million miles away on a planet which is a city, where the Jedi Temple lies, there is a little girl, a Twi’lek, blue wearing yellow ribbons on her lekku, watches her baby sister scream defiance into the world which isn’t listening.

“Ahnakeen,” says the child’s mother, flushed and sad because she knows her daughter will leave her, “Ahnakeen Ekkreth.” The little Twi child leans over the cradle, breathing out her sister’s name in awe, her short lekku twitching slightly.

She looks up at her Jaieh, bouncing in excitement on her young feet. “Do you want to meet my sister?”

Her Jaieh, a Kiffar whose tattoo is the colour of her ribbons, smiles, leaning down to place his ungloved hand on her tiny head. “Alright.”

“You have to get Da too,” she insists, pouting and ducking out from under him with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Promise.”

He sighs, shrugs, and bellows through the apartment for Da. From the kitchen she hears Mama shout for them to keep the noise down, but they only laugh quietly. Mama is always telling Baba to keep the noise down. Da enters the room silently, hair still wet, dressed in his soft under-shirt and trousers that make her want to cuddle in like a lothcat in a fleece. “I’m here. What’s up?”

“Want to meet Ana? She’s my sister. You’re going to be her Jaieh. Force says we have to wait though,” she tells him. She grins when his eyes spark in curiosity, knowing that would catch his attention. “You’ll like her, Da.”

He smiles. “I’m sure I will.” Da settles beside her on the carpet, and she tugs his legs into a cradle-shape so she can sit against him. Baba is sixteen years older than her, and Da is sixteen years older than Ana; and Baba is three years older than Da, and she is three older than Ana. Aayla loves when patterns happen. “Comfortable?”

Aayla nods, cuddling against his chest. “You’re fluffy,” she tells him, looking up into his blue eyes. She thinks Da must be very beautiful, for a human. Maybe Ana will look a bit like him, but she won’t have to. Baba looks nothing like her, and they’re going to be together always; he promised. “Okay, Baba.”

He kneels, and places one gentle hand on her head. A smile spreads on his young face. “She’s lovely, Aay,” he whispers. “Do you see, Obi?”

Da, when she looks up at him, has tears spilling from his blue eyes, staring at where he must see Ana. “She’s perfect,” he breathes, cuddling her in, “completely perfect.”

“Baba! Wake up! Breakfast!”

Aayla raps on the door again, before shoving it open and leaping into the bed like the little bomb she was, right into Obi’s stomach. He whines, curling slightly in on himself.

“Sorry Da,” their girl apologises, pressing her little blue hand to his forehead, just as she has seen Quin and Lumi do for whilst he fights of his fever. “Come on get up! Up! Riss says we’re all together today!”

“Why is your daughter a morning person”, croaks Obi, turning over to hide under the pillow, away from the stinging light and unavoidable heartache of consciousness. If he stays in here, in bed, then he won’t think about Satine, and the nameless bond between them that was something like and completely unlike his bonds with Lumi and Quin, he won’t have to think about never seeing her again.

“I’m a morning person,” Lumi reminds him tenderly. She slips out of bed, not disturbing the quilts at all. “Come on, dear heart, let’s go get you ready. Baba will only be a minute.”

Aay leans down in Lumi’s arms, poking at his curled form hidden entirely by the bedding. “Wake up, Da,” she says with child’s sweetness, “I’ll make your breakfast for you.”

He opens one blue eye a crack, just able to see what he knows is Lumi’s rose-yellow houserobe through the gap between pillows. “Aayla Special?”

The little Twi nods seriously, he is sure; he can just picture it, little lekku waving gently in affection. “With St’oni bread.”

“You’re the only person I love,” he grunts, still half miserable.

Quin rolls his eyes. He can practically hear them rolling even under the pilow and unable to see him. “Come on, up and at ‘em.”

“If they want to come at me,” he grumbles, “they can come here.”

He has been on Tattooine for six months now, missing his family fiercely for the entire duration. This is why the Jedi warn of attachments. How much more dangerous is a mission when you could be distracted in the field? How many people could he accidentally cause harm to by a sudden panic for his little girl, for his Lumi or his Obi? Far safer to control one’s affections, to guide and guard the heart. Pity he isn’t very good at that.

“Hey mister,” says a street kid, a Tog hybrid maybe, lek-bumps and greenish skin, all dirt and inground sand, “Ani Skywalker wants to talk to you. Come on.”

Ani Skywalker – Anakin? Aayla’s Anakin? Impossible, utterly impossible yet – yet. All things are possible in the Force. Perhaps this truly could be what he is hardly daring to imagine. “Alright,” he agrees easily, and follows the kid through the shaded alleys of Tattooine too close to Gardulla the Hutt’s residence. Waiting for him is a tiny human girl-child, short-cut blonde, blue eyed, standing in a little alcove against a house where he expects to find a shrine.

“You’re Quin,” she says as soon as he reaches the acceptable speaking distance, and smiles like a supernova, and Quin nearly collapses onto his backside in shock.

It’s been too long since he last held onto Aayla and saw the girl she called Little Sister, but he would recognise Anakin Skywalker his daughter’s bonded anywhere. “Hello, Anakin.”

“Aay says you need to bring me to the Temple now,” she says sagely, refined as any Master in the Temple. “And that she loves you.”

He rubs his nose for something to do with his hands, a way to give himself a moment to think, following the sharp yellow of his tattoo. “Aayla’secura, I will be having words with you when I get home.” She can hear him; he knows she is listening, like hearing music pitched below his hearing range.

Anakin giggles, her joy and hope bubbling in the Force, like a spring, an oasis, a geyser. White-hot like the suns above. “She says Obi says that you deserve this.”

Is that so? “Tell her to tell Obi-Wan to stop laughing at me and get in a ship and get over here to pick us up. And yes, Aay can come too,” he adds, thinking quickly and trying to work out if he can risk leaving his posting. The answer to that, of course, is a resounding no; but he is a Jedi, and he will continue to hope.

When Ana cheers in glee, he thinks he sees the blue form of his Aayla with her, hugging her tight from behind exactly how he hugs Lumi and Obi, but then the image – the hint of an image – is gone. It is this half-seen union of hearts which keeps him strong until he goes home, until he next eats with Obi or wraps Lumi in his arms.

There are lines of white-armoured men arranged on the hanger in front of them like children’s toys, and it’s just hitting Aayla now, in this moment hours after the call to Geonosis, as the loss of her friends hits her like a brick in the face, that she almost lost her sister. Ani had been chained, chained to die in an arena, along with Da and the pretty Senator Amidala. Her Baba had been shaking in his fury that someone had dared to chain part of their family, fury and fear, just like always when something happens to their family. Pain had been echoing down their dyad, throbbing in her lower back and around her wrists from the chains, and when the mudhorn-like beast had attacked Ana she had cringed back in pain, feeling the impact of its heavy had as if it had been her own body hurled like a rag doll -

“Aay?”

Her lekku relax out of their tight twist of stress, waving gently towards Anakin in great affection. “I’m okay.”

No you’re not, says her sister, and she sighs, because she isn’t okay, at all. A white-armoured soldier marches up to them, aura a delicate blend of ferocity and protective adoration of his brothers; salutes and hesitates when they both cringe slightly at the greeting. “General Secura?”

Both her face and her lekku twist in revulsion at the title. General, like she’s a warrior, a soldier, when all she wants to be is good, and freeing. A beacon of hope. “Knight Secura is more than adequate. May I ask your name?”

“CC-50-” he begins, and stops dead when Anakin chokes, bucket tipping slightly to his left side in curiosity.

“Force no,” they insist together, “please not numbers. Names is fine.”

“Bly, then,” he concedes after a moment when she thinks he was probably communicating with his fellow Commanders. Do they call each other brother, she wonders? “I was wondering, General,” he starts to ask, a touch wary, but is interrupted when Ani sees Da and Baba across the wide hangar bay and sprints off, yelling in Dai Bendu. Aayla sighs at the antics of her little sister, and turns to Bly, ignoring the clamour of Baba’s scolding and Da’s litany of ‘thank Force you are alright’.

“So when they come here, you bow like this,” she instructs gently. His wondering will wait; she can ask him what it is later, after the introductions are made. “Right hand in a fist, cradle it in the left hand, offer it to them as you bow your head. No need to bow too low, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes. Bly tilts his helmet down towards her hand – she is starting to notice that they have a language of these signals, a form of non-verbal communication unique to them. “That’s interesting,” he says, slowly, as though he’ll be scolded for his interest. When she only smiles, pleased, he continues, “I have always been interested in cultures. Perhaps we will learn together?”

Aayla feels her lekku curl up towards her chest, flattered, as she smiles. “I would like that very much, Commander Bly.”

Their conversation cuts with the approach of Da and Baba. She falls into Baba’s chest, letting him hold her safe and warm in his strong arms against his hard chest. His hair tickles her brow. “Don’t you ever scare me again,” rasps her Baba. “Force, Aayla, chickadee, please.”

“I won’t, Baba,” she promises, an empty promise now that they’re at war.

Slowly, Da draws her away from Baba, tugging her close. He smells of blood, sand and smoke, and saber-electricity. He smells of war and pain, and not at all how he should. He should smell mildly spicy, a bit like hot stone. The difference is only highlighted by how the smell of sabers is a constant, unchanged. “Hello, baby,” he breathes against her cheek, “I missed you,” and she bursts into tears. Bly shifts in alarm. “Oh, darling,” croons Da, voice sliding into that melodic half-song she used to fall asleep to. “It’ll be okay.”

Ana hugs her from behind, tall and strong. “So long as we’re together, right Aay?”

Bly suddenly snaps to attention, muddied white armour shifting in her peripheral vision, barking out some word she doesn’t understand to a pair of troops. One has two symbols scratched into his helmet in black mud. By the way her Da tenses, she supposes it must be Mandalorian. He only goes like that when he thinks about the Duchess. “Generals,” he says to them, “Commander Cody and Captain Rex, assigned to General Kenobi and Commander Skywalker.

“Please,” her Da says, releasing her, “remove your buc’ye if that makes you more comfortable.”

They turn to him in sharp curiosity. “You speak Mando’a?” Da’s confimation pleases them, and they remove their helmets with sharp clicks, Bly first. When the Captain with his marks removes his helmet, Anakin gasps down the bond.

 _He’s so beautiful,_ she says, dazed. Aayla wipes her tears off her cheeks, presses her cheek to her sister’s. _No, Aayla, he is,_ protests the younger Jedi, pouting slightly. It makes her want to laugh, through the tears.

 _Sure you’d fall in love with one,_ she teases. _Of course it would be you._

Aayla laughs at her sister a lot. Of course she does, they all three laugh at each other all the time, that’s what sisters do; and as the older sister it is her job to make her sister’s new boyfriend uncomfortable. Which she has done.

Perhaps, she will admit with perhaps a kernel of amused shame, a little too well. The Captain’s face probably shouldn’t hold that shade of red, his eyes directed at the floor in abject embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Cap,” she giggles, a bit drunk, setting her drink on the table, “but it really is too funny that such a disaster being as my sister has managed to land such a competent man.”

“Ah, well,” he blusters, flushing even worse, “I really do think she’s the, well, she is a Jedi.”

At her side, her crèchemate Lorena sniggers. “Listen here, sunshine,” she announces, or rather slurs, finger raised at him, the effect ruined by the fact she’s trying far too hard to focus on Rex to be anything but visibly drunk, “but Ana has never been the competent one.” Rin raises his drink in salute of the sentiment.

The dear Captain seems moments away from combusting, and they let him make his excuses; cackle madly as he leaves in a hurry to join Bly and the other boys.

 _He’s sweet,_ she tells Ana down the bond. Her sister sends an impression of putting her head in her hands.

Anakin waltzes into the flat humming. She has been down with Barriss and their other agemates in one of the now-empty Initiates’ Dorms, drinking as they do, playing silly child-games and teasing each other over crushes. Sadly, Aayla hadn’t been there, so Ani had taken most of their friends’ teasing on herself, flushes and defensive and a giggling mess. The door squeaks and she freezes, forgetting for an entire minute she isn’t a Padawan anymore; she can make her own bad decisions with Mama’s mildly dodgy homebrewed alcohol that Barriss had provided. Anyway, she reminds herself, Mama and Da are on a date night, or not a date, but they’re not in.

“Anakin,” greets Ahsoka sleepily from the sofa, and she screeches like a Mandalorian hawk in alarm.

“Fekk, I forgot about you,” she gasps, staring, hand pressed tight to her chest.

Ahsoka stares back over the arm of the sofa, still mostly asleep. She has one of Riss’ homemade blankets tucked around her, hooked over her montrals, and one of Aayla’s woven pillows under her head. “Forgot,” she deadpans, then shakes her head slightly. “Rex called.”

“He did?” she asks, forgetting to pretend that she isn’t helplessly infatuated. Lazy with sleep – she must have just woken – Aayla tugs the bond curiously, and is ignored. Ani has more important matters than listening to her sister-dyad tease her. “What did he say?”

‘Soka shrugs and settles back down into the cushions. “Just that he wanted to talk to you. We talked about his brothers a bit, he’s staying with the Guard, did you know the rest of his batch is with the Guard?”

She had not known, no. It must feel similar to how it feels for them to be separated for long periods of time, but then again, they always knew they’d have these separations. Rex maybe didn’t.

“Just that, really. Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” says Ani immediately, honest by reflex, and winces. Aayla laughs at her, which is hypocritical, because Aayla can’t lie drunk either, even if she does last longer than Ani usually. Which is funny, because both Baba and Da are as good at drunk lying as sober lying. Maybe that’s practice.

“Do you fancy him?”

Ani sighs, dreamily, thinking about his kind hands and bright smile, and kicks herself at ‘Soka’s happy squeal. Damn. There goes all her plausible deniability. “Oh, hush,” she scolds, and walks into her room with her Padawan’s laughter still in her ears and a wide smile across her face.

They’re standing in post-battle exhaustion when he asks her. It takes her a moment to focus in on his voice, ear cones still struggling to process blastershots and cannons, to adjust to the haunting empty air. “Bly, did you just ask me to marry you?”

His nonchalance stinks of exhaustion. He shrugs, still at her side, not facing her directly. “Yeah. I can ask tomorrow in you like?”

“No,” she assures him quickly, “I want to. Let’s do it.”

“Great,” he says, and they stand and watch ash fall for a minute before he clears his throat. “We should probably go see to the men.”

Her lekku twitch at how raspy his voice is. “Yeah,” she says, and wonders how this became her life.

Seven hours later she walks up to him in the mess, where everyone is drained silent but for the clink of utensils. She still hasn’t slept, but her skin is blue again and her lekku out of the leather headdress, wrapped in a lovely scarf she stole off her Riss a few months ago, and she feels closer to herself. “Bly, did you mean it?”

He looks up at her, brown-gold eyes a gentle glow, wary but determined. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Aayla answers firmly, “because I told my Baba and he wants to talk to you.” There’s a bright flare of alarm in his Force Signature, so she sits heavily in his lap and tucks her scarf-wrapped head against his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, he just needs to check. It’s a Ryl thing. And a Jedi thing. But it should be fine.” She considers. “Okay, but I’m reasonably sure Da and Mama will stop him, like, stabbing you or anything. Probably.”

Bly stares down at her helplessly, so she sleepily kisses his cheek and he flushes.

“Mm, carry me to bed when you’re done,” she says, because they’re engaged now and she wants what Mama and Baba and Da have. She wants and she can have – will have. Bly’s soft affection coils about her softly in the Force, and she tugs on the bond with Ana just enough to convey an image of her situation then falls asleep to her sister’s enthusiastic questions with the hum of life from her men in her earcones.

For once, something good has come out of the war.

Aayla has spent the months since that battlefield proposal weaving her wedding dress in shades of blue and gold and yellow, combining her natural skin colours with the hereditary lineage colour schemes of her line. Her Master spent months upon months when she was a late teen tracking down the sort of yarn, soft and thin and time-consuming to weave into bolts which must then be sewn together to make the dress. It’s been kept safe in her room at the Temple ever since, waiting for the right time to be used. Her weaving consumes enough of her time that she treats it as meditation, weaving the Force into the over-under threads. Patience, young one, Baba’s voice echoes in her ears.

“There is no emotion,” she says picturing the riots in Coruscant from when she was thirteen, “there is peace,” and her mind is full of the sound of the fountains.

She changes colours, threading slender golds into the blue. “There is no ignorance,” she continues as she reflects on her education, “there is knowledge,” off the Dark and Light, the will of the Force, the sort of person she wishes to be.

“There is no passion, there is serenity,” Aayla continues with a smirk, thinking about the vibrancy of the Force when enthusiasm and adoration filter past mind-shields, but tempering her humour with the understanding that to be lost to passion with no thought to consequence is a sure step into selfishness.

“There is no chaos,” like the chaos of war, or the madness of cruelty, the unhinged mania so many seem controlled by, “there is harmony.” Harmony, like mediation with her family, like watching Da and Mama dance or Baba run his katas with his bright saber singing.

And finally, the last stage of her daily meditation. “There is no death,” and she recalls Da’s devastation when Master Qui-Gon passed on, “but the Force.” When she passes, and her family, they will be found in the Force, dancing through the currents of life-and-death until they fade away. How lovely it will be, she considers, in some far-off future when nothing will cause her pain, when she will exist only upon the whim of her own fancy. All around her the Force sings, winding almost tangibly around her. It is a relief that the Force approves of her relationship; she isn’t sure what she’d do if faced with a choice.

“I can do it,” he says quietly, arms solid around her. Bly is a wall of heat at her back, always protecting her, always loving her with everything he has. With the Force she can taste it, aven Anakin can see it.

She takes a deep breath, feeling how his arms remain snug but almost thoughtlessly adjusting to the expansion of her ribcage. “No, I want to,” she says, “I really do. I’m just...”

“Attachments?”

Aayla closes her eyes. “All her life I’ve had Ani, you know? There is nothing but death will take us away from each other, and that’s how a dyad should be. But this too? I was on thin ice with you, really, but a baby...”

He pulls her closer, wrapping the huge fluffy blanket – she didn’t want to know how Fox got it, but it’s her favourite of their wedding gifts – and holding her tight in his arms. “I’ve got your six.”

She pushes the connect button before she can lose her nerve. Her pulse speeds up with every tone, every second they have to wait for Baba to pick up. Please, she prays to the Force, please don’t let him be somewhere unreachable, don’t let her have to hold on another day longer.

It’s the guilt of it she can’t stand: hiding from everyone even Ani because she needs her Baba to know first, the guilt that she hid it even from Bly for a week until he found her crying yesterday because she felt too overwhelmed. Gentle, the Force croons to her, starbursts and supernovas. It always cherishes new life.

“Aayla,” her Baba greets, fond and pleased and so full of love she bursts into immediate tears. “Aayla? Baby, what’s the matter? C’mon, chickadee, take a deep breath there,” he coos, and she just cries harder into Bly with the comm tight in her two hands and her lekku limp and sad behind her.

“I’m,” she tries, but the words are stuck in her throat even worse than when she had to force them out to Bly. Deep breath in, she steels herself, and lets the dam break. “I’m pregnant, I’m sorry, I should have told you when I knew but I was scared and I didn’t know what to do and – and – and I miss you so much and I’m scared, Baba.”

There is a silence that rapidly turns into steel. “Aay?”

She sniffles. “Yeah?”

“Did you want this?”

Yes. Yes – of course she does, he knows she wanted this with Bly, but she knows too that Baba is checking, as he always does, keeping her safe. “Yes.”

He relaxes, she can hear him letting out a breath, “Okay. Okay, good. Where are you?”

“We’re going home, we’ll be on Coruscant a week.”

“I’m going to meet you when you get back,” he promises, “but right now I need to go. I love you. Tell your Mama, and Da.”

Aayla smiles, strengthened even by such a short conversation, by the complete lack of judgement her Baba always provides. “I love you too. I will.” The comm clicks off, and she tucks her head into Bly’s neck as her heart overflows with love.

“I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“We haven’t told Da yet,” she reminds him, and he curses quietly. It makes her giggle, because Da is so kind and gentle, but he’s also High General and a wickedly clever warrior, which the men have endless admiration for.

He first meets Padawan Commander Barriss Offee on Geonosis, after the horribly traumatising experience of the mind-control insects. Domino is taking a minute to breathe, just breathe, because even space-air is better than no air, and this is a choice they can make, so they make it, reclaiming what the insects had tried to take. Her head-scarf is a little awry, sliding when she moves; she holds it in place with one hand as she rummages in one of the boxes in the kitchen.

“Commander Offee,” he greets quietly, thinking she perhaps hadn’t noticed them.

She turns around too fast, her scarf sliding; she gasps in horror as it slides. They quickly turn away, or his brothers do at least. Fives fixes his eyes on the ceiling panels. “Do you need a pin, Commander?”

“Yes, please,” she whispers, breath fast and catching. He has one in his pocket, or more than one it turns out; he holds them out, palm-upwards, keeping his gaze respectfully averted. They’ve served under General Skywalker long enough to know when to look away from a private moment. Another moment or two passes, of his brothers’ soft breathing and the low fabric-rustle as Padawan Commander Offee fixes herself up. “Alright. Thank you.”

Fives looks down to her, smiling. She’s so small, he realises, really short and slender, even though she’s older than Commander Ahsoka. “It’s my honour, Commander. These are my brothers Echo, Hevy and Cutup. DB was here a minute ago.”

“He slipped out,” provides Hevy, which clears up absolutely none of Fives’ mild confusion about where he got to and how.

The Commander seems to be regaining her colour now that the shock of losing her scarf has passed, meeting their eyes as she offers one of the many Jedi bows he doesn’t know the exact meaning of. If they’re fortunate, if the Stars are kind (if they’re listening) then he’ll have time to learn. Right. Anyway, Commander, what can we do for you?”

She manages a smile. “Just, call me Barriss. I don’t like being called Commander, it feels like – like I’m a soldier.”

He cocks his head. “You’re a Jedi. A Jedi soldier.”

Barriss’ face twists. “Force, not me. I’m a healer.” Her hands twist and she purses her lips. “Although I think some people are both, like the medics. Healers who can also fight. It’s not about ability, it’s about whether or not I can look myself in the face knowing I’d be taking lives.”

Fives stares at her. “I haven’t thought about it like that.”

The door opens. He spares a glance to see DB enter with their box of sweets, and Hevy and Cutup with the sort of expression that means he’s going to be getting talked at for hours when the pretty Jedi leaves again. He attempts to not look at his twin. DB shakes the box. “Brought you some of our contraband sweeties,” he tells her, “make us all feel better.”

Her smile is something Fives would capture a falling star to see again.

Barriss holds Fives’ hand a lot, now that they’re past the stage of blushing around each other like the main interests in some romance-holo. It helps them both, the little physical contact that reassures them they’re not in some Force vision, some ridiculous dreamscape where none of this is real. Everything seems possible when they’re together, back to back, blasters and sabers. Everything seems better, when they’re cuddled into each other.

“Da would like to see you,” says Barriss. “About what you want to do about us.”

He shifts so he can meet her eyes. “When?”

“Tomorrow, maybe.” She presses harder into his chest. “Let’s just let the galaxy be for a night. Just stay with me.”

He moves her head slightly so he isn’t breathing into her sleep-scarf. “Tell me about your Da, and Mama, and General Vos?”

“Baba,” she supplies. “Alright. Well, Mama is the oldest...”

He leans forwards, moving some of her threads around so they don’t tangle. “Your turn.”

Barriss hums, considering. “My Baba, Da and Mama always said that I shouldn’t hold any fear because they have our backs, all three of us, Aay and Ana and me, but I’m still scared all the time.” She looks down at her weaving, focusing on the lift-and-tuck motions required when working with the heavy yarns she is. When it’s finished, it will be a heavy shawl, and she’ll give it to Fives. It will keep him warm in space. “Mama raised me most, of course, but my Da – Da and I have a lot in common, you know.”

Fives’ eyes are all soft in adoration, his smile gentle. “Your Da is General Kenobi?”

“Yes. He’s the youngest – he’s not even old enough for any of us, except maybe Ana, to be his own kids. Baba and Mama are, though,” she tells him. “We aren’t supposed to call them parent, really, and not every sort of Master-Padawan bond is parental like that, but ours always have been.”

“It sounds beautiful,” sighs Fives. “Closest we had would be General Ti, or some of the older brothers, like Rex and Cody.”

She tips her head, flushing at the soft brush of her hair over her shoulders. “I can’t imagine.”

Fives is watching her hair again, drinking in the way it moves, the flow of it, even though she hasn’t washed it properly in weeks and some of the strands have snapped and she hasn’t any conditioner to smooth it down, and she is a mess. None of that matters to Fives. It doesn’t matter to her either. “I’m pleased your Master is so close to mine and General Kenobi,” he says. “I can’t imagine not loving you.”

Jedi move too fast for the normal human eye to track, they’re told, so the holonet agrees, but they’re not normal humans. They’re clones of Jango Fett, and whilst he isn’t a CC – he can’t even imagine what the world is like for them, doesn’t want to try and understand what Bly and Cody see when these spars happen – Rex has enough advancements to be able to track most of the action of the spar.

Anakin is easy to track, her lean strength carving viciously against General Kenobi’s defensive Jar’Kai, twin sabers moving well beyond visible speed. She is harsh waves, the storms of Kamino in flesh, sun-marked and sharp cut hair. Beside her, Knight Aayla is a blur of whipping blue, her blade imperceptible. Noise fills the hangar bay, the distinct crackle of saber-blade.

“You’re improving,” he hears General Kenobi praise, pleased. “Now, stop holding back. Cody is filming. Let’s give the boys a show, mm?”

It is as though a storm is unleashed. Suddenly nothing is out-of-bounds; Anakin and Aayla, only recognisable as blurs of blue and black, twist around each other continuously, as though they are but one person; through it all General Kenobi is a grounded swirling whirr, flashes of paler colour between blue-and-black. His breath catches: he’s never had chance to truly watch before. Not the dyad-girls, not like this. Bly is crying silently in awe, eyes darting at speed that gives Rex a headache. He may be an ARC, but he will never be a CC. ARC is basic training, for them. Whatever Rex sees, Bly is being transcended.

Anakin is, in one heartbeat to the next, standing in front of him, chest heaving as she grins. “Fire at us?”

“What,” he asks, dazed. “What – why?”

“For a challenge! Baba and Mama and Riss aren’t here, you may as well give us chance to show off. Mild stun, in case we hit any of you,” she pushes.

Rex opens and closes his mouth a few times, but Bly picks up the slack and agrees. With the sudden appearance of blaster bolts, carefully regimented and monitored by Bly and Cody, the dance becomes a real spar, the girls facing more of a challenge. General Kenobi is no longer near-hidden by them; instead they’re trying to work him around to face them, and Rex is very proud when he recognises the change in Form General Kenobi works into the spar. He has no idea what it’s called.

He hasn’t got any thoughts, faced by his Jedi-wife and her sister and The Negotiator.

“Da?”

“In here, Ani,” he calls from the office. She leans against the door frame, watching him finish typing up a report on his datapad. The light makes the marks under his eyes starker, the cut of his cheekbones harsher. He looks wrecked by the War. “What is it?”

She goes in, sits on his lap like she’s six again, still unused to being taller than him, curling in so she can tuck her head on his shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”

Da kisses her hair, puts down the datapad. “You know you girls can come to us with anything.”

“I love Rex,” she blurts, looking down at her hand where she’s twisting his soft shirt, “and I want to marry him.”

He’s quiet for a moment, surprised. “Have you told him?”

She shakes her head. “Told Aay and she said to talk to you.”

“Thank you, Ani,” he says quietly. He strokes her back. “Do you want me to give you advice or just sit here for a while?”

“Carry me to bed?”

He laughs at her, as if she’s cracked some inside joke she doesn’t know like she used to when she was little. “Aren’t you a little tall?”

“No,” she insists, and he kisses her hair and carries her to her room with only slight assistance from the Force – empty now that neither Riss nor Aay are in the Temple, they’re home alone because Ahsoka is staying with some friends in the Initiates’ Dorms. “I’m still your little girl.”

“Always,” Da promises. He sets her on the bed, and she wriggles under the quilts. “Do you want to talk to me about anything else?”

“Just that, Da,” she says sleepily. “Sing to me?”

Fives peers into the cot, hands curled carefully around the rails. The babies sleep, skin lighter than he remembers seeing any of the Littles have. But of course Anakin has pale skin, so he supposes it makes sense. A lot of CCs have dropped in offering congratulations, including Fox and Wolffe together on their way to work, and Colt, who'd flown out specially to meet the Skywalker babies. He'd stayed an hour, cradling both to his chest in expert tenderness, with tears trickling down his face, and promised to return in the morning. Fives doesn't trust his hands to be so delicate. "Hi, babies," he whispers.

"You won't hurt them," Anakin tells him, folding blankets and baby clothes on the unit in the corner. "You are perfectly capable of being soft and gentle."

He shifts. "I don't know," he demurs, "I'll just wait for Bariss."

The Jedi hums. "Sit," she says, pointing at the bed. He sits. Anakin drops a pillow on his lap, then scoops up the girl - Leia - he knows it's the girl because her skin is a shade paler, and she's a touch larger. In a smooth motion she places the child on his lap.

"Anakin," starts Fives in alarm, wrapping the child in his hands carefully, and she laughs.

"You're a natural. Maybe you'll have your own one day."

"I think we'll wait until Barriss is ready for a Padawan," he answers, enchanted by the tininess of Leia. "Hello, neice. I'm Ba'vodu Fives. I'm married to your Aunty Riss. She's your amu's sister. I'm your Papa’s brother." Anakin smiles at him, soft and melting in the way he's noticed only happens around Littles.


End file.
